Chapter Eighteen: The Freedom of Mountains
Spring spilled over the Hamagarid mountains, seeping through the deep shadowed canyons, smothering the exposed hillsides. Shaggy sheep and goats cavorted in the high meadows, crushing the starry flowers that released achingly sweet scent that dizzied the mind. The new season in High Hamagara was a trumpet blast of nature, inaudible to the ears, but an assault upon every other sense.
Now, as she walked in line with the others along the narrow tracks, Varencienne could taste the air, able to discern every subtle nuance: the resinous tang of pine, the confection sweetness of mountain violet. She could tell when they passed the haunts of animals, the smell of their dung and musk still hanging heavily amid the undergrowth. The season pressed against her flesh at night like the breath of a lover. She lay in Shan’s arms, delirious as a swooning virgin. He was a shadow against the stars, a god of rock and earth come to possess her. I have no other life, she thought. All of it was a dream. She was passing from the real world into the otherlands, the landscape of myth. Hamagara had allowed them to pass across its threshold and now it claimed them. No wonder there were so few tales of people having travelled here. People did not return because they did not want to, could not. They became part of the land itself.
I have a son and husband, Varencienne told herself, but they did not seem real. Was this what death was like? A drifting away from the mundane, each silver thread of connection breaking one by one, until earthly life no longer meant anything, and the cries of grief that tugged at you became thin and insignificant as the far songs of birds?
Taropat became increasingly quiet as the journey progressed. He took to walking ahead of Shan and Varencienne, as if the sight of them together affronted him. Ellony would chatter and skip beside him, her hand in his, but she desired no response from him. Sometimes, Varencienne’s heart contracted in her chest at the sight of him: she sensed his loneliness and wished she could reach him. They could be friends, if he’d only let her in. As time progressed, she began to see him as Khaster more and more, the idea of Taropat a needless fabrication. His stiff posture and habitual pinched expression were starting to loosen, revealing a man who looked younger and was more lithe and supple. He was, despite his lingering cantankerous moods, a very handsome creature. Varencienne tried to control these thoughts, because she knew they marked the boundary to a very dangerous territory. When they assailed her, she would look upon Shan and tell herself she was blessed.
Higher up, toward the sky, where the air became rarer, the constructions of personality began to melt away. Varencienne could only assume the others felt the way she did. Standing on a bare crag at dawn, with the wind slicing through her hair and her heart soaring with the breathtaking primal beauty of the landscape, she could scarcely feel her body any more. She was pure essence at these times, strands of uncomplicated emotion. The shapes of the mountains, the patterns of the eagles as they surfed the currents of air, were components of the mandala of creation. Everything had its part, each tiny piece making up the whole. Humans thought they were so important, but they weren’t. They lived in delusion, trapped in a petty reality they created for themselves. This was real. This was life.
The company had acquired tents at Vereya, using some of Varencienne’s jewellery as currency. Varencienne found it did not hurt her to surrender it, even though one piece had belonged to Valraven’s mother. The Hamagarids who accepted this wealth clearly were unaware of its value. Perhaps their children would play with the bright baubles, losing them among mountain meadow flowers. It no longer mattered. Varencienne did not want material things any more. A stout staff was worth more than any fancy necklace. A meal of rice, milk and cheese was more satisfying than any royal banquet. She could no longer remember being the person she’d been at the beginning of their journey.
Now, every morning, she rose before Taropat and Shan, just before dawn, when Snopard and his acolytes had already left to engage in morning devotions away from the camp. Varencienne would climb to the nearest crag to watch the dawn slink over the mountains. At first, it would come as a black band on the horizon, obliterating the scintillant star shine. Then a soft glow would bloom in the sky, gilding the highest peaks. When the mountain tops were ablaze, the valleys were still asleep in darkness. Night departed lazily from the canyons, almost reluctant to go. Sometimes there were nomadic tribes to watch in one of the valleys below, communities of two or more families, who would begin their day’s work at sunrise: seeing to their animals, preparing the breakfast. Through the clear air, Varencienne could hear their voices, their laughter. Other times, when there were no humans visible in the landscape, she watched the wild goats and sheep. Occasionally, she saw wolves and once – a moment to treasure – the rare mountain leopard, a creature of silver and snow. It appeared on an overhang above her, observed her with icy blue eyes for a few moments, then disappeared as if it had never been there. Ellony had told her that the leopards were avatars of mountains spirits. They were magical and could grant boons. Merely sighting one was auspicious. When Varencienne reported her experience to the others, Snopard was delighted. He said that their journey was blessed. He himself was a priest of Kakamani, who was the king of leopards and an aspect of Paraga. The Nugrid did not seem the slightest bit resentful that the leopard had appeared to Varencienne rather than to him or his followers. Varencienne could understand some of his talk now, because Ellony had taught her what Hamagaran she knew. It was inconceivable that only a few weeks before, Snopard’s words had sounded like nonsense. Now, it was the bright babble of a swelling river and occasionally Varencienne could make out shapes beneath the hectic surface.
One morning, snow fell in the predawn, a final flurry perhaps. Today, Snopard had said, they might reach their destination. Varencienne hoped the bout of inclement weather would not delay them. She wanted her first sight of the holy city to be in late afternoon or at sundown, when the land became a treasure house of gleaming colours. As usual, she clambered at dawn to an isolated ledge near the camp. The snow was a thin crust beneath her feet. She saw tracks in it, perhaps wolves or foxes. They had camped on a hillside overlooking a wide valley. On the opposite slope was a ruined gat, surrounded by cairns built by superstitious travellers who were afraid of the ghosts that might inhabit the ruins. For the first time in weeks, Varencienne found herself thinking of home. Perhaps it was because their journey would soon be over and then they would have to decide what to do next. Their old lives were destined to intrude. She thought of spring in Caradore, of Pharinet and Everna. They would be worried about her, but there was no need. Perhaps, even now, Valraven was following in her footsteps. Was the land affecting him like it had her? She wanted him to see it, experience it.
She heard the crunch of footsteps behind her and turned, expecting Shan. He knew she liked to watch the dawn. But it was Taropat who had followed her. Her body responded with a flood of pure pleasure. This was dangerous. She should guard against these pointless feelings. Shan was hers, and he was all that a woman could desire. Taropat was not. If only he didn’t look that way.
Varencienne smiled at him and he inclined his head to her, his mouth managing to grimace a greeting. She realised that she was about to experience something preordained and essential. Time had closed upon her in a circle. She thought of the Chair above Norgance, where once some years ago, she had believed Khaster had appeared to her. For a brief second, she could smell the rain of Caradore once more and hear the clop of water dripping from the leaves. What had he said? ‘It will happen regardless of what you think or do’. Something like that.
‘I wanted to see what you get up to every morning,’ Taropat said. ‘You could be casting fire spells or communing with your mother.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ she said. ‘I like to be part of the sunrise, to feel it. The world is reborn every day, and when I’m part of it, I feel I’m reborn too.’
Taropat sighed through his nose, apparently in impatience, but Varencienne
was not deceived. He did not walk away or utter a cutting remark. He wanted something, but was perhaps not even aware of it. ‘I saw you once,’ she said. ‘A long time before we actually met.’
Taropat regarded her sidelong in enquiry. His expression was far from friendly, but she pressed on.
‘It was at a crucial time in my life, when I had to make important decisions. I had gone to the Chair to find inspiration. A man came to me. I thought it was Merlan, that he had followed me from Norgance. He said strange things to me, and told me someone was waiting for me at home. I went back to Norgance first and found Merlan there. He hadn’t followed me at all. I realised then that it was you who I’d seen. I went home to Caradore Castle and discovered that my mother had arrived. Soon after, we went to the old domain with Valraven and he communed with Foy there.’
‘I wouldn’t have told you to do that,’ Taropat said in a flat tone.
‘No, you didn’t. You said, “it will happen regardless of what you think or do”. And it has, hasn’t it?’
‘Those wordsc’ Taropat said, gazing out across the valley. There was wonder in his voice.
‘You know them? You’ve heard them too?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Tayven said them to me once.’
There was a silence, then Varencienne said, ‘Who are you now?’ He would know what she meant.
‘I know what I’m not,’ he replied. His expression had changed, become softer, although it was as if he was speaking to himself rather than to her. ‘I’m not my pain, nor my bitterness. Nothing seems consequential up here. Even Taropat. I see him as a crusty old man, tramping through the dark valleys down there. I’ve escaped him, like a spirit.’
‘Taropat had no reason to be crusty,’ Varencienne said. ‘Shan has told me all he knows. If anything, I would say it was a damaged shell you’ve left down there, part of Khaster.’
‘But I may walk back down to it. This escape does not feel permanent or real. It is like brief respite.’
‘Isn’t that your choice?’ Varencienne asked. ‘Isn’t it your choice who and what you are, how much of Taropat, how much of Khaster? If I’ve learned anything here, it’s that.’ She sat down on the cold rock and gestured for Taropat to join her. ‘I have a theory. Will you hear it?’
He shrugged, grimaced again and sat down. ‘It might be interesting.’
Varencienne’s heartbeat had increased. She could hear it in her ears. He might react badly to what she wanted and needed to say. ‘When you became Taropat, you were a mixture of conflicting personalities. I think that when Taropat takes a new avatar, much of the previous one remains, but over time it gradually becomes more dormant. What survives is Taropat’s knowledge, like a library of books. The old personality does not at first leave the flesh and become one with the universe, which is an unusual condition in any belief system. But maybe, eventually, it does go. It might have to. What is left is a period of transition, of handing over. I don’t think you are Taropat. I think you’re Khaster, but that you don’t want to be. You’ve created what you think you should be, but you don’t like it. When you met Tayven again, it was a great shock, and the man who Shan first knew went into hiding. I’ve heard the stories many times over these last few weeks. I could see a pattern in them. You are not mad, nor cantankerous. It is against your nature. You don’t even want to feel bitter, but you’ve created a trap for yourself. If you climb out, what is left? Something raw and new and fragile. But perhaps it is time to do so.’
Taropat laughed, a little nervously. He hadn’t interrupted her once and had appeared to listen attentively. ‘You have been thinking deeply about me, princess,’ he said.
‘I was in love with you for a while,’ she answered. ‘I used to stand for ages gazing at your portrait in Norgance. You were my tragic hero.’
‘Really?’
Varencienne clasped her hands about her knees and found the palms were burning hot. ‘Yes. I was a lonely creature, married to a cold stranger, dumped into a country I quickly grew to love but did not know, regarded with suspicion by your family and Val’s. I had to prove myself to everyone. I had to make Val see me. You, of all them, did not judge me. I could look into your painted eyes and believe you saw my soul, that you understood.’ She too laughed, but with more sincerity. ‘Valraven stole your wife’s body whenever he wanted to, but you stole his wife’s heart. I would say that makes you about even.’
‘Don’t joke about it,’ Taropat said. ‘Remember Ellony. You cannot laugh about that.’
‘No,’ Varencienne said, unperturbed. ‘I can’t, but you should know this. The dragon daughters were responsible for what happened. It was they who took Ellony.’
Taropat shook his head vehemently. ‘Don’t try to justify what Valraven and Pharinet did. They were responsible. There would be no dragon daughters, but for them.’
‘They acted in ignorance, yes,’ Varencienne said. ‘But do you really think either of them wanted that to happen? They have both tortured themselves about it. We all make mistakes, every one of us. If Pharry or Val still revelled in what they’d done, or didn’t care, I’d share your view of them, but they don’t. You were all young, and victims of tragic circumstances. Val and Pharry could not help what they felt for one another, but tradition decreed that they must marry other people. They did not mean to hurt anyone.’
‘It was perverse,’ Taropat said.
Varencienne expelled a snort of derision. ‘Listen to yourself. What is perverse? A man loving a man, a woman loving a woman, a sister loving her brother? Love goes beyond mere human constructions. When it happens, it happens. True love, utter giving, is never perverse. Perversity is selfishness, cruelty, coldness. It is humans who are perverse in their fear of what they don’t understand. Was your love of Tayven perverse?’
Taropat rubbed his hands over his face, made a sound of discomfort.
‘Yes, I know. I’m making you think about things you’d rather ignore or bury,’ Varencienne said, ‘but will you answer my question?’
Taropat was silent for a few moments, then said, ‘I remember Recolletine, the first time. I remember hope and warmth. No, it was not perverse, but we were both far from perfect. That time at the lakes was like this: a respite, a dream. It could not last.’
‘Perhaps not, but it was a vision of what could be, a dream to aspire to.’
Taropat stared at her. ‘What is this insight you are trying to give me?’
‘Clarity,’ she answered. ‘True sight. FreedomcSilence.’
‘Do you have these things?’
‘A little. Let’s say I aspire to them, that I’m willing to accept what is.’ She reached out and took one of his hands. ‘At first, I was furious when you took me captive, but now I cannot thank you enough for bringing me here. Things are becoming clear. We will return to the world, but we will go armed with new knowledge and insight. We will do what has to be done.’
His hand lay motionless in hers, but he did not pull away. ‘Do you know what that is?’
‘I think it’s the Crown,’ she answered. ‘You must reform your brotherhood, bring forth the Dragon Queen.’ She paused. ‘You must face Valraven.’
Now he did pull away. ‘Is this what this conversation has been about?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘You are a dragon daughter yourself to try and seduce me in this way.’
‘You have conquered many fears,’ Varencienne said softly, ‘but this is the biggest. Think where its root really lies.’
He shook his head, his mouth a grim line.
Varencienne reached for his hand again, held it tightly with both of hers. He pulled against her, but she would not let go. ‘You came to me once, whether consciously or not. You helped me. Now I’m trying to help you. Let me be your oracle, Khas. Let’s work together to create what we desire. Let’s change the prophecy. It must happen because of what we think and do! We are not helpless. We have will. Surely, Taropat knows that.’
He glanced at her, managed a weak smile. Sh
e let go of his hand. ‘I’m back at the beginning,’ he said. ‘It’s so strange. The last few years might never have been. Has Hamagara done this?’
‘You said we were meant to come, remember? You followed a vision and we followed you. I was wrong ever to doubt you. Shan didn’t, despite the way you treat him.’
‘You and Shan,’ Taropat said, an observation rather than a criticism. ‘Is he part of the reality you must return to or simply a figment of your dream of Hamagara?’
‘I am married to Valraven and to Caradore,’ she replied, ‘but I will take lovers. Shan is not the first.’
‘I would expect nothing else of a Malagash,’ Taropat said, but his voice lacked the usual acidity he reserved for talk of her family.
She shrugged. ‘Ours was a marriage of convenience. You know that kind. But Val and I have resolved to be friends. Our relationship is perhaps stronger than romantic love, for it is without jealousy or fear. We trust one another.’
‘You want him to be king, and for that you need me.’
‘I am not my mother,’ she said. ‘It is not a case of using and needing people. We should work together. I really don’t know if Val should be king. I don’t yet have all the information and experience I need to make a judgement. I feel I’m travelling towards it, that’s all. But what you achieved last year at Recolletine was phenomenal. That company should not have broken up through fear and paranoia. Get over it. Start again. The Valraven that Sinaclara, Merlan and Tayven see is not the one you see. I’m not saying they are right and you’re wrong, or vice versa. I’m just saying there are different views, and that you should appreciate that.’
‘Valraven is Sinaclara’s tragic hero, as I was yours,’ Taropat remarked, and Varencienne perceived a bitchy edge to the comment.
‘Then I hope she can be there for him as I am for you,’ she said.
The Way of Light Page 23